


In the Shelter of His Wings

by DeanRH



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, M/M, Politics, ancient sparta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25970593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanRH/pseuds/DeanRH
Summary: Dean is a young politician in Sparta nervous about the upcoming elections. When he meets one of his rivals, Castiel, he doesn't know what to do with the feelings the other man inspires in him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 16





	1. Sparta

Dean never thought he would end up in politics.

Sparta was, after all, not the place to be a politician. That was for Athens, for the men who argued there, who treated women like they didn't exist. Election as one of the five _ephors_ who advised the two ruling kings was the kind of contest no one wanted to lose,

Dean had come up with his brother through the Spartan warrior school, much like every Spartan citizen, male or female. He'd watched as Sam grew out of a gangly boy who was all elbows and lanky limbs into the kind of heroic figure that the writers and mythmakers idolized. Yet Samuel had no interest in war or politics, preferring a quiet home life.

Dean had always wanted to help people, and a lifetime of learning and fighting had led him to the political arena. He needed to help, to fix things. It was a part of him like breathing.

One of his opponents was the only thing that gave him pause.

Brilliant and beautiful, with blue eyes that flashed with the wrath of heaven, this man strode into the forum on the first day and Dean's tongue got caught in his throat.

He knew, in that instant, he was lost. 

He also knew that he had to suppress this feeling, because to show this kind of weakness meant to forfeit the upcoming election. Just because Dean had fallen hard at first sight didn't mean the general population of Sparta would agree. He still had a chance at election.

***

"Have you tried talking to him?"

His brother, Samuel, gently bounced his baby son, anchored to his hip, who giggled as he put his fist into his mouth.

Dean had always been impressed with Samuel's home on the mountain ridge, where the peaks surrounded it and the terrace offered dizzying views of the valleys below. He was a little hazy as to whether it was a safe kind of place to raise a child, given its extreme height, but Dean had to admit that it was beautiful.

"What?" Dean asked. "No, Sam, that's the worst idea you've ever had."

Sam removed the baby's hand from his mouth and gave him a toy to suck on instead.

"Suggesting that you talk to your sweetheart is the worst idea I've ever had," said Sam in a familiar flat, doubtful voice that made Dean roll his eyes.

"You know what I mean," said Dean. "Maybe after the election."

Sam smiled.

"Whatever you're comfortable with, Dean," he said. "I don't remember his name from school. Castiel, you said? Sounds foreign."

"That's just it," groaned Dean, rubbing his face. "He _is_ foreign. I didn't know that foreigners could stand for election."

"Don't be a xenophobe," Sam chided him.

"That's just it," said Dean. "I'm not. That accent of his -"

Sam held up a hand, the one that wasn't holding the baby.

"Understood," he said. "Where's he from? Do you know?"

Dean, wide-eyed, shook his head.

"Then that's a good conversation starter, don't you think?"

"Sam - "

"Look," Sam interrupted, "I know that you're afraid, after what happened. You aren't being disloyal to a memory. So will you promise me something?"

Dean sighed.

"Sure."

"You'll talk to this man, Castiel - "

" _Sam_ \- "

"-instead of coming up here and talking to me about it til the next Olympics!" Sam said firmly. "It's my right. I've been listening to you moon over him for months."

"Sorry."

"That's all right," said Sam. "That's what brothers are for. But Dean, I can't help you - nobody can - if you don't get out of the doldrums and, you know, _do_ something about it."

Dean sighed noisily. 

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Dean, that's wonderfu - "

" _After_ the election."


	2. Debate

The debate was the following day.

Dean was surprised at the crowd. Political events were interesting, but not to the point that they drew a lot of attention.

Then again, as he surreptitiously glanced at Castiel, and the way the white robes hung from his body, the dark blue shirt he wore beneath -

he could acknowledge that the people might have finally found something interesting about politics.

He recalled, as a younger man, that he'd often felt like he had no say. This crop of aspiring politicians were much younger and, he could admit, more attractive than the old men who usually served as the kings' advisors. They'd always felt so distant, arguing over little things that didn't really matter to the Spartans and their daily lives.

The debate today was on sending soldiers off to war, an important one for the people of Sparta. So much of their lives revolved around weaponry and fighting. They were proud of their skill, but no family wants to send their loved ones away, never to return.

"First debate," announced the programmer. "Dean and Castiel. Take your places, please."

Dean's head snapped up and he looked over at Castiel, his eyes wide. 

Castiel nodded at him with a polite, self-assured confidence that made Dean look away again quickly.

Dean stood and walked to the front of the platform, where the people of Sparta had gathered to watch the debate. He did not want to watch as Castiel strode forward. He did not think he could keep his wits about him.

"As Dean knows, we are all soldiers," said Castiel from beside him, startling him. "That is the way of Sparta, and the way of Persia, too."

_He's_ **_Persian_. **

Dean was alarmed. He had thought they were at war with Persia.

"Pleistarchus is no Leonidas," Dean said. "Should the soldiers of Sparta follow his lead? Many perished in the great battle of Thermopylae. The songs are still sung. But what use was it? The Persians conquered anyway."

He gave Castiel a pointed look, which was received with a soft smile. Dean paused, put out of sorts by it.

"But Dean," said Castiel, and Dean's alarm increased as Castiel paced toward him, soft and certain. "Should we forever live in the shadow of these men? Leonidas, for you, and Xerxes, for me? Should we aggrandize them forever, sending men and women to the slaughter? People celebrate and worship those who have made their names in war, in the hope that future people who wish to be heroes will throw themselves to the same wolves."

Dean was frozen, like prey freezes in the face of a predator. 

Then, Castiel reached out and took his chin in hand.

Gently, he rubbed a thumb across Dean's lips.

He heard a collective gasp, and Dean reminded himself he had an audience.

"War is noble," Dean said, moving away from Castiel's hand, though his every instinct told him to move closer, audience be damned. "War is what has made the fame of Sparta. Athens is the flower of the intellect. Perhaps you should go there, Castiel, if you prefer weakness to strength."

Dean watched the rapt audience look to Castiel for his answer. When he chanced a look at the man, Dean was surprised to see that he looked hurt.

"Sparta allowed me citizenship despite my nationality," said Castiel. "My loyalty is to Sparta, and always will be. It is because I love Sparta that I would not see more Spartans perish needlessly."

"And how much more will they perish, if they grow fat and lazy without combat experience?" Dean demanded.

"Fear guides your hand, in that case," said Castiel. "I see another future for Sparta. One of hope."

Dean drew breath to argue further.

"Time."

Dean and Castiel bowed to each other and retreated. 

The debate went on between the other hopefuls, but Dean's mind was tumultuous with thoughts. It was difficult for him to imagine another Sparta. One of peace. He had only known violence, and looking at Castiel, it was clear that the man had seen his fair share of fighting.

When the debate ended, Dean walked home alone, his footsteps pacing the wide streets as he wondered what it meant for Castiel to have come here, what he must have suffered, and what the world might look like if the Spartans ultimately decided to beat their swords into ploughshares, as the Hebrews often said.

***

Dean's house was, not to put too fine a point on it, Spartan.

It was small, with a little patio that overlooked the city street. There were no decorations of any kind, and a narrow bed set against one wall. Samuel's house was a home. Dean's house was a barracks. _The eternal soldier_ , someone had called him once, and it stuck.

He, too, lived in the shadow of the men who had come before.

His father had fought and died at Thermopylae with Leonidas. He was acutely aware that he would never be the man his father was, any more than one of the current kings would ever be another Leonidas. 

Despite this, he felt that he had to try.

His mind kept going over and over the gentle touch of Castiel in the middle of the debate. The world seemed to fade and vanish around them. He had never known anything like it. But he felt a deep guilt and shame for his feelings, because Castiel was Persian, and therefore one of the enemy. Citizen of Sparta or not, he was from the people who had killed the men at Thermopylae and also his father.

That was the reason Dean hid himself in his narrow bed, as if anyone could see - or even if they could see, would guess his thoughts in the darkness. Forehead against the cool wall, he fisted his cock with images of bright blue eyes and a confident smile flashing through his mind, and shouted his release into the quiet. He could not stem the tide of guilt that washed through him afterward, as he lay there panting with his spend across his belly, and cursed himself.

Moments later, he had cleaned himself off, and yet felt unclean as he went to stand in the window and look down the street in the moonlight.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he murmured to himself, as he watched the light of the moon slide across the stones in the silence of the night.

Suddenly, he started.

There, down the street, he watched as a shadow detached itself from a wall, furtively look back and forth, and then move down the street like a shade.

Dean's jaw tightened. Here was his chance to prove he was still a Spartan, after all.


	3. Courtyard

Dean followed the shadow between the buildings, ducking when the figure turned, looking around furtively. He darted forward, but it was no use - he lost them somewhere between the market square and the hillside that led to Sam's house.

Dean sighed and shook his head. Maybe it was a lover's errand, and he was being foolish chasing down someone who did not wish to be caught. 

"Not the view I was expecting," said a gravel voice from above him, filled with amusement, "but I can't say I'm complaining."

Dean whipped around and looked up at a figure on a balcony. It was too dark to tell for sure, but that voice had haunted his days (and his nights) since the contest began.

"Shh!" Dean hissed. "Are you out of your mind?"

As his eyes adjusted, he could see Castiel leaning on an elbow against the balcony railing. A soft flash of white told Dean he was smiling. 

"Some might say so," said Castiel. "Would you like to come inside? It's chilly out."

Dean stood there, torn between common sense and his libido.

The door opened to the street.

He stood there frozen by the choice for so long that he hadn't registered Castiel leaving the balcony.

"Come in, Dean. There are cutpurses about."

Castiel held the door open.

Dean walked forward, beneath Castiel's arm, as if he were under a spell.

***

Small torches flickered, casting a soft light on the courtyard.

Dean was astounded. He had never been in the presence of such sumptuous beauty. He had always been taught that possessions were useless, trivial things, and to scorn them. A true Spartan had nothing more than he or she needed to survive.

But Castiel, while Spartan at heart, did not live like they did.

Dean thought he had walked through a door into Paradise.

A large fountain bubbled in the center of the courtyard. Blue and white tiling laid out in an intricate design repeated itself on the walls, the fountain, and even some of the benches around it. Huge, leafy green plants filled the space, so that it looked like a private jungle bower. The soft intimacy of the torchlight behind glass was yet another luxury Dean had never known.

"Please," said Castiel. "Sit. Talk with me awhile. I have only seen you at the debates, and I would like to get to know you better."

Dean hesitated. Was it a trick? He had known unscrupulous politicians who would stop at nothing to attain their goal. Castiel's strange behavior, touching his face during the debate, made Dean wonder whether Castiel had an ulterior motive.

Whether it was the low torchlight in Castiel's blue eyes that made him foolish, or being caught at the late hour that made him brave, Dean nodded brusquely and went to take a seat where Castiel indicated.

A pile of pillows on the nearest bench were softer than they looked, and Dean sank into them gratefully.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" asked Castiel, seating himself at the other end of the same bench. "I must confess, although I am a Spartan through and through, there is still much of the Persian in me. I love to surround myself with creature comforts and beautiful things."

He gave Dean a pointed look which Dean completely failed to interpret.

"So tell me, Dean," said Castiel, his arm along the back of the bench as he turned to face him. "What were you doing out in the street at this hour?"

"What were you doing on the balcony?" Dean retorted, defensive. Castiel smiled. It was soft and disarming and made Dean want to kiss him.

"You may be surprised to discover that I tend towards introspection," said Castiel. "Indeed, I might say I was an introvert."

"But you're a politician."

"An aspiring politician," agreed Castiel. "A gift of the stage, perhaps, but not of the man. I confess there are times when I find myself nearly speechless, unable to find the right words."

Here he paused, staring at Dean again. 

Uncomfortable, Dean looked away.

"I saw someone sneak out and run down the street," said Dean. "I thought they might be up to something."

"Or it was a lover," Castiel suggested, "using the cover of darkness as a shield."

"I thought that might be a possibility," said Dean.

"But only after you'd decided to pursue them."

Dean nodded silently.

Then he looked over to see Castiel much closer on the bench.

He didn't know how to react, only that his body had decided this was a good thing. He blushed.

"I would very much like to kiss you now," murmured Castiel. "Is that all right?"

Dean stared down at the floor, as if he did not trust himself to look up at this handsome man in this beautiful garden, as the light of the torches played across his face.

But Castiel took his chin in hand, just as he had done in the debate, and looked into Dean's eyes.

"Yes," Dean said, and Castiel leaned forward, capturing Dean's lips in a sweet, chaste kiss.

***

Castiel leaned back and regarded Dean, who was now completely out of sorts as to what to do.

"That was wonderful, Dean," sighed Castiel. "But we both need our rest for tomorrow's debate. I suggest you go home and sleep while you still have time."

"I - " Dean stuttered, his mind still filled with where he had expected the evening to go. "What?"

Castiel nodded at the sky above the courtyard. Dean hadn't noticed the time passing, and now where there were bright stars, the dawn lit the sky pink.

"Besides," Castiel winked, "I wouldn't like to cause a political scandal before either one of us is in office."

Dean's jaw worked, but he couldn't find anything to say.

"Let's wait until we're in office to start the rumors and scandals. What do you say?"

Dean was completely tongue-tied.

He found himself gently led outside and deposited into the street. 

Castiel stared at him for a long time, a wistful expression on his face, and then closed the door.

Dean stared at the wood, mouth opening and closing, and although he knew that he must look like a stupid fish he couldn't help himself.

He threw his arms up in the air and walked back to his own house in a stupor, the sensation of Castiel's soft, chapped lips against his playing over and over again in his mind. As he turned down his own street, the city had started to wake up and go about the day. Castiel was right, of course - if anyone had seen him leaving Castiel's house at dawn, the rumors would spread, and spread, and spread.

Confused about what had happened, and wishing he had been a little more decisive about it, Dean took the stairs up to his rooms and threw himself face-first on the bed. He was asleep within moments, his dreams filled with blue eyes and soft, sweet kisses that turned into more.

***

As it turned out, the rumor mill had started anyway.


	4. Oranges

Dean found the cool interior of Sam's house a welcome balm to his fevered thoughts.

As he walked in, he nodded at Sam's wife, Jessica. She covered her mouth with her hand, hiding a smile, and took the baby from her husband, disappearing into the back of the house.

"That's strange behavior from a Spartan," said Dean. "I thought it was Athenian women who were to be seen and not heard. I know we're laconic, but - "

"Is it true?" asked his brother with a stern expression.

Dean wheeled around and stared at his giant younger sibling.

"Is what true?" he demanded. "What is going on around here?"

"Did you _find transport in an exotic Persian bower_?" mimicked Sam, and then erupted in gales of laughter.

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"You know, I liked you a lot more when you had that serene oracle thing going on," said Dean. "You want to tell me what this is about?"

A wave of guilt passed through him when he thought about the fact that he had been in an _exotic Persian bower_ mere hours before.

"It's all the rage," Sam explained, when he got ahold of himself. "Sparta can't stop talking about it. Apparently you and one of the other candidates got, uh, _close_ with each other onstage, and then someone saw you leave Castiel's lodgings last night."

"What? Who?" Dean demanded, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

Sam's jaw dropped and then he pointed at his brother with glee.

"You _did_ find transport in an exotic Persian bower!" Sam gasped.

"No, I - shut up, will you?" Dean grumped. "Yeah, I was at Castiel's, but - how would anyone - "

"There are spies everywhere," Sam said. "Especially in the lead-up to an election. They like to spread news about candidates, check that they aren't secretly evil in some way."

Dean remembered the shadow skulking around who had given him the slip. He was furious for a moment, but then sagged like the wind had gone out of his sails.

"I should've known," he admitted. "I saw someone hiding in the shadows last night, gave chase. I lost them, but - "

"-you found Castiel," said Sam triumphantly.

"I think it's very sweet," said Jessica, who had returned to the room now that she had composed herself. "So does everyone else, Dean. They might vote for you just to keep up the story. And you know how much everyone here loves a good story."

"Leave the street theatre to the Athenians," growled Dean. "I don't want their votes just because they want to, to write a love story!"

"Dean," said Sam, "Take the win. Take the votes where you can get them. Intelligence is good, strength is better, but sometimes tactics win the day. You know that - _we_ know that - better than anyone."

In the dim light of the house, the shadow of their father's sacrifice spread across the room.

Dean nodded.

"I'll take the win."

***

The final debate was the following day.

Dean had spent the rest of the day with Sam and Jessica, distracting himself from the upcoming election and the strange new feelings Castiel had inspired in him. 

Now, he walked alone in an orange grove near the city, gathering his thoughts for the last debate.

"Fancy meeting you here," said a voice that made Dean want to take a dunk in a cold lake. 

He groaned.

Castiel approached, his aquiline features beautiful in the moonlight. And he really was _beautiful_ , beautiful and grave, like a statue, like a hieroglyph, like something ancient and blessed.

_Like a god._

Dean gasped and took a step back. Castiel frowned.

Dean was from Sparta. He knew what it meant to form a tryst with a god.

"Are you - " he began, then cleared his throat. "You're not a god, are you?"

Castiel smiled. If anything, it made Dean's heart break even more.

"That's a nice compliment," he said. "But no."

Dean just stared. He couldn't help it. 

He would swear that he didn't know how it happened, but they were suddenly kissing, panting and desperate, mouths grinding against each other, teeth clacking in their violent need to get closer. Dean tore at his own robes, at Castiel's, like a madman, and they stood bare-chested in the heat of the darkness in the orange grove.

Panting, in silence, they stared at each other, pulled and pushed apart.

"I," stammered Dean, "I - "

He looked at the ground, trying to gain some semblance of control, his harsh breathing echoing in his ears.

"What is it, Dean?" murmured Castiel, gathering him into his arms.

Dean shuddered in overwhelming pleasure as he was enveloped in Castiel's arms, against Castiel's skin, until _Castiel_ was the only word he knew, could ever possibly know.

Castiel cradled his head, gently, against his shoulder.

" _Tell me._ "

"In the name of all the gods, I want you," Dean hissed. "Gods help me, I want you, Castiel."

"That's good," breathed Castiel. "That's very good, Dean. I want you, too."

Dean closed his eyes, his desire returned, wrapped in warmth and safety.

Then that voice in his head, the voice that always guided him in debates, that voice that told him that Sam was feinting -

said -

_if not a god, then something else._

Cold fear rushed into Dean's limbs then, and he hated it, hated losing that feeling of peace swaddled in lust.

There was something strange about this, _too-soon_ about this, something _wrong._

"Dean?" murmured Castiel, but the spell was broken.

Dean pulled away.

"I don't know what you are," he said coldly. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but - just. Just stay away from me. Stay away!"

He rearranged his clothing angrily and stomped away from Castiel, away from the orange grove and his feelings falling like stars into water, bright and warm. Dean quashed them, grit his teeth against them, pushed them away.

But on the ridge beyond the grove, he couldn't help it.

He turned around.

Castiel still stood in the orange grove, illuminated by the moon. He hadn't bothered to replace his own clothing, so he stood there bare-chested, still and silent as a statue.

Then he looked directly at Dean.

Dean cursed and turned away swiftly, biting off words of recrimination towards himself.

***

Later, he sobbed the word _Castiel_ so loudly as he came over his hand that he was certain the neighbors had heard.


	5. Election

Dean couldn't concentrate during the final debate. His points were vague, he kept losing his train of thought, and his irritability toward Castiel began to mount.

Castiel, for his part, was smooth-tongued and brilliant. Dean cursed himself for thinking of his tongue at all, and then was sideswept by the announcement that the debates were over.

The voting would now begin.

Everyone bowed to each other, and then Dean startled when he felt a warm, broad hand on his back.

"Best of luck," murmured that voice he was coming to hate because of the way his body automatically responded. 

Dean looked up at Castiel in fury.

"Was this some kind of a game to you?" he hissed. "Play with the idiot Spartan, make him lose?"

Castiel just smiled serenely.

Dean wanted to punch him in the face.

"Look at them!" giggled a woman to her friend, as they passed. "So in love!"

Dean shot them a furious glance.

"Such passion," nodded an elderly gentleman who favored them with a smile on his way to cast his vote.

"What did you do to me?" growled Dean.

"Patience, Dean," said Castiel softly.

Dean suddenly realized that he hadn't moved away from Castiel's hand. Irritated, he shook it off.

"You know," said a familiar voice at his shoulder, "I didn't believe the rumors, but..."

"Sam," Dean said, turning to his brother in relief.

He was holding the baby, and Jessica stood next to him, grinning ear-to-ear.

"You've got my vote," she said brightly.

"Oh, shut up," said Dean.

"He's wonderfully caustic, isn't he?" Castiel addressed Sam and Jessica. "I haven't had the pleasure."

"I'm Dean's brother, Sam," said Sam, "and this is my wife, Jessica."

"Castiel."

"We've heard a lot about you."

"You get away from them!" said Dean.

"But we want to know your future partner!" exclaimed Jessica. "Or...current partner?"

She looked between the two of them.

"I'm taking a walk," said Dean, who was feeling particularly explosive. His own brother! Traitor.

"You can't," said Castiel mildly. "They're about to announce the winners."

Dean gaped at him and turned around. 

Sure enough, the voting had already finished.

"That's the fastest vote I've seen," Sam remarked.

The programmer stood and read off the names.

"...and finally, Dean and Castiel," he stated, beaming.

Dean's jaw dropped. Castiel grabbed his hand and lifted it into the air in victory.

"You see?" murmured Castiel, as everyone cheered and whistled. "Make them fall in love with a love story, and they're putty in your hands."

Dean was so surprised that he had no retort, and just smiled into the cheering crowd.

***

Later, in the orange grove, darkness had fallen once again.

Dean loved to come here, walk in the light scent of citrus, and contemplate life.

Today, his entire world had changed. 

But if he were to tell the truth, his entire world had changed upon the arrival of Castiel.

For too long, he and Sam had lived in their father's shadow. Sam had never been all that bothered by it, because Sam did not idolize their father. But for Dean, there had been no great war to fight. There had been no real way to make himself a hero like his father had been, not in these times of peace. 

And while Dean would agree that peace was the preferable state of a nation, Spartans had trained for combat. They expected it. They lived the fight. So for someone like Dean - a son like Dean - to be the child of one who had fought with Leonidas at the Hot Gates and have nothing to show for it, no opportunity for glory, it chafed at him.

It may not have mattered to anyone else. They probably never thought about it.

But it mattered to _him._

Now, he had something that would make his father proud.

Serving as one of the advisors to the co-kings of Sparta may not be war, exactly, nor a way to cover himself in military honor and glory.

But he remembered his father well, and he knew that this would ultimately make him proud. 

Maybe not a warrior, but one of the elites who advised the kings, arguably the people who were the true rulers of Sparta.

"I hope I am not interrupting."

Dean's head snapped up, and he saw Castiel standing at the end of the alley of orange trees.

"You!" Dean said in fury, marching toward Castiel. "Did you mean any of it? Was any of it real? Or was it just a trick to get us the laurel wreath?"

"Stop," said Castiel. "Stay where you are."

"And just why would I do that?"

Castiel's head was bowed.

His robes fell forward, around his waist.

A pair of black wings erupted from his back and stood tall above him, spread out, nearly the height of the orange trees themselves.

Anything Dean had planned to say died in his throat.

He stopped mid-step, stumbling backwards, falling to the ground.

As he stared up at Castiel, Dean's mind whirled with all the gods and monsters he could remember from the stories, but Castiel fit none of the profiles.

"I thought you said you weren't a god," Dean said weakly.

"I am like no god you have ever known," said Castiel. "But I am not a god."

"Then what are you?" hazarded Dean.

"I am your guardian angel," said Castiel. "And my mission is now complete. Enjoy your new status, Dean."

Castiel turned to leave.

"Wait!" said Dean. "Before you go. Tell me. Was it - was it - "

Dean blushed. Having asked it once, he found it difficult to ask again.

Castiel looked over his shoulder, blue eyes nearly glowing in the low light. The black wings seemed to shake with emotion.

"Real?" asked Castiel. "Dean."

He said the word with the kind of devotion that Dean had only heard from the most reverent lips. Like his name could make a universe.

Then, he was gone.

Dean lay there on the ground beneath the orange trees and wondered why it felt as if his heart had been ripped clean out of his chest. He had known Castiel for mere moments. Castiel had known him all his life and perhaps before. 

And - if the way he had said his name was any indication - he had loved him, unlike anyone had ever, or would ever love him.

Dean, one of the five newly-minted advisors to the king, understood then and there that he would give it up - his father's legacy, Sparta, everything - to keep Castiel by his side.

_I miss him so much. He left me. He never told me - and I never said._

_And he didn't even say goodbye._

***

A harsh, repetitive buzzing sound shrieked in Dean's ear.

He rolled up from bed, gun drawn, not even really awake yet.

"Wha - " he blurted.

He blinked at the plywood walls, the shag carpet, the old television, the divider wall.

His gun was cool in his hand.

The man looking wearily at him, standing in the corner wearing a trenchcoat that had seen better days, sighed when he saw the gun, as if he had resigned himself to this kind of welcome, gave him a blue-eyed stare that bored right into his skull.

_He had been so strong, his face unlined. Healthy. Beautiful. He looks so damned **tired.**_

"Cas?"

"Hello, Dean."


	6. Wings

"Did you fall asleep watching _The 300_ again?"

Dean lowered his gun, and rubbed his eyes. He glanced at the television and sure enough, Gerard Butler and his abs were there.

"Huh," said Dean. "Cas, you wouldn't believe it. I had the _weirdest_ dream."

The television blinked off. Dean looked at Cas.

"I turned it off. What was your dream? Was it a portent?"

"A what? No. I don't think so. I sure hope not," Dean laughed. He put the gun away and stood up, pacing the room. "I was in Sparta. We all were. I wanted to be a _politician_ for some reason, greasy little weirdos. Anyway, these ones weren't bad. I shoulda realized it was weird, man, Sammy had a baby but I didn't know its name. Jessica isn't really Greek."

"Jessica was there?"

"Yeah, and you were too," said Dean. "I won this election because of you, and then - then - "

He swallowed against a lump that had appeared in his throat as if by magic.

"You were gone."

"Dead?"

"No, just - _gone_ ," said Dean. He felt something like panic rising in his chest. "Dead is one thing. But you - you -"

_Left. Chose to leave me._

"I'm sorry, Dean. But it was just a dream."

"Maybe," said Dean, gathering his courage and thinking of Sparta. "But it did tell me one thing. I've left this way too long."

He grabbed Castiel by his trenchcoat and pulled him forward, kissing the startled angel on the lips.

Castiel let out a breath like he'd been holding it for years. Maybe he had.

Maybe they both had.

"Now you listen good, 'cause I ain't gonna say it again," said Dean as they kissed, the angel melting into the wall behind him, trenchcoat sliding up, his eyes closed in utter bliss. "You listenin'?"

"Yes, Dean," said Castiel, between kisses, as if the very thought of parting from Dean in any way was hateful to him. "Of course, Dean. I'm always listening."

"This is a declaration to the angel Castiel," said Dean. "Castiel. I love you. I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for years. You're _it_ for me, man, you always have been. How could I think I was worthy of an angel?"

Dean sighed at the memory of what he had seen in his dream. Those elegant, gorgeous wings arching tall and proud above Castiel's head. He saw his chance, and he took it.

"Bring 'em out, Cas," said Dean, his voice rough with lust. "Your wings. I wanna see 'em."

"Dean," said Castiel, and Dean saw tears slipping from his closed eyes. "Oh, Dean."

"Those better be happy tears," said Dean, and Castiel just nodded.

And with a sound like a sail snapping to in the wind, those great black wings he had seen only in dreams and shadows wrapped dark around them, hiding them from the world.

"Screw laconic," said Dean, and kissed him again.

"I'm so happy," murmured Castiel.

There was a rushing sound of wind.

Dean fell forward into the wall, forehead slamming against it. 

He pushed himself up off the wall and shook his head.

"Jeez, Cas, you didn't need to fly off," said Dean. "If it was too much."

His smile faded as he looked around the room.

"Cas?"

Hours passed.

Dean prayed.

There was no response.

Dean sat at the edge of the motel bed with his head in his hands.

_He left._

_He didn't even say goodbye._


End file.
